We Could Have Had It All
by glimmergleam
Summary: Because Amy Pond is no damsel in distress and the Doctor is sure as hell no White Knight. A series of one-shots building to a larger arc. AU
1. Chapter 1: by any other name

**This started as a tumblr rant that turned into fic. Rory is boring, so I wrote him out. Amy Pond is a bad-ass, and she deserves better. I am not a Moffat fan.**

**AU after "The Eleventh Hour."**

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There are a thousand cool things about exploring the universe with the Doctor but the one amazing part that Amy never even dreamed of is how wonderful it is to escape from all the therapy. She no longer has to report to any doctors or counselors or well-meaning friends' parents about her dreams and her hopes and the _meaning_ behind the active imagination that she's always known was just reality. Nobody asks her how it feels to climb neon green boulders in purple forests; nobody worries about the symbolism of going sky-diving with Joan of Arc; nobody tells her to stop talking about funny stuff the Doctor said because anytime they hang out with someone, that person likes him too. Nobody scolds her about wasting her youth or applying to university or to serious jobs; she's pretty sure the Doctor never went to college and he turned out great.

She tries to record some of their adventures, but she's a pretty shitty photographer and her mobile battery never stays charged; it must be something to do with the TARDIS energy field. She asked the Doctor once but he just shrugged. She's not sure he really understands what a cell phone is. And she tried to keep a journal but that only lasted a few days. She isn't good with words, she's good with her fists and her wits. (Which, hello, thank god for that – sometimes the Doctor gets so excited monologueing about humanity and evil that he forgets to focus and if she didn't carry pepper spray in her bra they never would have made it out of that last planet alive.)

Another good thing is the fact that the Doctor calls her "Amy" instead of Amelia; Amelia is such a stuffy name and the other kids always used to shout "Amelia Bedelia" at her, especially in primary school when she had trouble reading and got the words mixed up. Rory called her Amy too, but Rory did everything she said whenever she wanted so she would smile at him or kiss him. (Which she did, but then she felt like she was rewarding a puppy.) But when the Doctor calls her Amy, he's not begging, he's _excited_. He shouts and groans and teases her and says "Amy, Amy, Amy" but she doesn't feel scolded, she rises to the challenge. "Doctor, Doctor, Doctor," she'll chant back, and slip the Sonic Screwdriver out of his pocket while he's arguing with her.

And when he does call her by her full name – when she's done something daring or smart or unexpectedly important – it's not just her Christian name, it's her whole name. "Amelia Pond," he'll smirk. "Amelia Pond, who could have guessed how wonderful it would be to have you along?"

"I could have told you," she says, tossing her hair. "If you'd just picked me up that night like you promised, we could have spent _years_ together. It's all your fault, you dummy."

"Oh but I told you, the TARDIS was damaged! I didn't plan to abandon you, I would never do that."

"Well," she says. "At least I'm here now. And frankly, you couldn't have lasted another minute without me; it's clear you're a complete mess all by yourself."

The Doctor goes quiet all of a sudden and she worries that she's touched some deep awful nerve, but before she can apologize he blinks rapidly and then bounces back. "I am," he smiles. "I am a _complete mess_, Amelia Pond," and when he looks at her like that, her toes curl and just for a minute she can't breathe.


	2. Chapter 2: in medias res

**Still tweaking this one, but I'm mostly satisfied.**

**h/t Monty Python and the Holy Grail, because I couldn't resist.**

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_Why is it always the gingers?_ The Doctor shifts his weight onto his right leg and sighs. All the Earth woman he's travelled with have disobeyed him at one point, but the red-headed Companions take particular glee in flouting his rules whenever possible. And yet even Donna at her sassiest can't hold a candle to Amy Pond when the latter woman decides he is being obtuse or overprotective.

Of course, if she had _just listened _to him in the first place, they wouldn't be locked in this storage unit at all. They'd be safely ensconced in the TARDIS right now, ferrying those eggs to the bird-like creatures on Garvonne waiting anxiously to foster them. Instead, they're stuck at the bottom of this overheated chamber, an ominous black liquid is seeping in from under the door and the wound on his left forearm is beginning to seriously hurt.

He could yell at Amy for this, but there's no point – she wouldn't be able to hear him over the noise of the massive pistons and plus he isn't actually sure he has the breath to shout. Maybe to wheeze.

_Ow_ – something smacks into his right elbow. Amy has thrown a lug nut at him. The Doctor looks up to see that she has sorted some of the piles of debris and uncovered – is that a pickaxe? How positively medieval of the Zartlax! Steam from the black liquid is rising now and clouding the room, but he can still clearly see Amy waggling her eyebrows at him. And smirking, damn her.

She beckons him over, so he stands up slowly, testing his balance. It takes an alarmingly long time for him to cross the room and Amy has actually started towards him, arms outstretched, when he reaches the pickaxe. The Doctor pushes her hands away. "Merely a flesh wound," he gasps. "Just a little scratch. Now, what have we here?"

"I'm no expert on power tools, Doctor, but I do believe this could cut through those fancy locks," Amy purrs. "_If_ you don't mind using some brute strength for a change. I know your manliness is all tied up in your screwdriver, but perhaps a little less Sonic and a little more muscle?"

But he has stopped listening by now, because buried in the discarded debris are five coal-encrusted hexagons, their pictograms nearly invisible in the dirt. "Amy! You've done it! You've found the totems!" He reaches down to grab the keys to the Garvonnian royal armory – oof, they're heavier than they look – and beams at her.

Amy's mouth has fallen open just for a second, but she quickly slings the axe across her back and assumes a triumphant stance. "Of course I have," she says. "That was my plan this whole time. I knew there was something funny about this room."

"Of course."

"If not for me, you'd still be arguing with that lumpy old ambassador for hours in that horrid cafeteria-place. Now we can just forget them and head back to Garvonne!"

The Doctor can't help it – he laughs out loud. By now they are ankle-deep in the viscous fluid and his arm is throbbing painfully, there are only 2 hours left before the negotiations end and the Zarflax decide to break the peace treaty, the eggs are probably in danger of freezing, and Amy will have to carry all five of the totems herself. And yet he isn't worried.

How could he be, with this Scottish loony by his side? Amy is a loose cannon, nearly as dangerous as the weapon on her back. With one mouthy remark, she has cost them several hours and saved them several months. Reckless and vivacious and brilliant and maddening, that's his Amy. She is filthy with coal and sweat (and possibly Zarflax slime) and she has never looked more beautiful.

"Right!" he says. "Let's go tell the galactic senators this peace conference is over. Forever."

"Last one there's a rotten Garvonnian egg!" Amy hollers, and beats him to the door. He wouldn't have it any other way.


End file.
